Chapter 11
Millie; February 22nd, 10:02 P.M.
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The road is quiet. Too quiet. Despite outward appearances, Cy’s car is actually pretty clean. Okay, It’s really clean; Uncanilly so. I can’t tell if I’m unsettled or hopeful, because maybe if his car is clean, his house will feel more like a B&B than a house. I break the silence to drive the unsettled feeling out. “Why were you there?”129Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3tyXvDVTns
His brows furrow in confusion, but he doesn't take his gaze off of the road– a safe driver; we like that. “What do you mean?” I roll my neck out in an attempt to look like I'm not freaking out. “The auction– Why were you there?” He side eyes me. “I’ve ‘mysteriously’,” He air quotes with his right hand, his palm still pressed to the wheel “found your location just about every time you tried to steal something, and you never cared to ask then.” That’s more of an objective statement than an answer. “Very true, but also very evasive,” I responded, pausing after a beat of silence, “so?”
“Seriously? I could ask you the same thing," he asks. He’s more incredulous than guarded, and that concerns me. What? “You of all people should know why I was there.” Okay, now he’s confused. After a moment of silence, it hits him, and the sides of his mouth perk up in newfound enlightenment. We stop at a red light, and he turns to me. “Why’d you pick that auction?”
“Uh… Honestly? It was the first one I found; I took a look at the artifacts, and they seemed to be worth enough.” It worries me how comfortable I am talking with him. He presses his lips together in what I only assume is an attempt to stop himself from laughing. “What???” I ask, slightly outraged, my curiosity too hard to mask.
“Do you remember what that auction was called?” I think for a second. “Yeah, It was an acronym. H.E.A, I think?” I gesture towards the light, which has turned green, and he hits the gas, jolting the car forward. “H.A.A,” he corrects, “can you think of anything that might stand for?” Why am I being gentle parented right now? I am so not a fan of the way he’s speaking to me. “Hardly An Acronym?” Get it? H.A.A? No? I’ll sit back down. He smiles for a second, then resumes his regular face. “No. Think again.”
This time, I actually humor him. H.A.A? Heroes’… As… oh.
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Oh fuck.
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I could not get any dumber. Maybe it doesn’t stand for that. Maybe I’m going crazy. I ask just to make sure. “Don’t tell me it’s Heroes’ Association… Auction? Is that what the last letter stands for? No, actually, don’t tell me.” He grins from ear to ear, fighting for his life to stay composed, but stays quiet. “Well?! Are you not going to tell me?” I ask impatiently. He raises one eyebrow in amusement. “I’m getting a lot of mixed signals here– do you want to know or not?” I think on this. “Yes….?” He shrugs at my uncertainty. “Good enough for me. Yes, it stands for Heroes’ Association Auction, and that’s why I was there. I thought you were there to make a statement or something.” I roll my eyes. “Yes, because that’s all I ever do; make statements.” I mask this statement in sarcasm, but I am a little bitter knowing that he’d think I’d be so stupid as to compromise my ‘job’ for a petty statement – I’m even more angry knowing that he’s not entirely wrong.
He shrugs one shoulder. “That dress you wore was certainly a statement.” Uh, what? “Screw you. I mean, thanks? Is that a complement or an insult?”
“More of an objective observation.” He responds in a calm cadence, but I'm freaking out. Am I delusional, or is he flirting with me? Someone tell men to stop wigging me out all the time! I want to rip my hair out, but I stay calm and thank god the car is dark and he can’t see me blushing. I don’t say anything, because If I know myself at all, I know my decision making skills cannot be trusted past 9:00 P.M., and it’s currently– I check the clock— 10:18 P.M. Yep. Nice try, brain. Instead, I respond with a cute little “hm.”, like I don’t care whether or not he complements me. I’m a genius; Nice one, brain– I’ll let you off free this time.
It’s quiet again, but I don’t break the silence this time because it’s his turn, and now I refuse to speak unless I’m socially obligated.
“Is your back okay?”
Speak of the devil. “It’s fine.”
“It didn’t leave a mark or anything?” Why’s he acting like an attentive puppy?
“I said it’s fine,” I respond, picking at my nails. “I have ears,” He states, “what I want is an answer.” He’s unrelentless. “It left a mark, but it’s fine; it’s only a little red.” I change the subject before he can ask any more questions. “What, uhh… what shampoo do you use?” Fuck. See, this is what I'm talking about– my brain cannot be trusted past 9:00 P.M.
He raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“What shampoo do you use?” See, this is a dignity-preservation tactic, in which I like to call ‘die-on-that-hill’; It works most of the time. I cross my arms, attempting to stand my ground– like It’s not a strange thing to ask, and he’s crazy for making it weird. Okay, so maybe my self-preservation tactic is just manipulation. Whatever; if it works, it works.
He releases a short breath and responds with “Loreal.”
Weird. “How come you smell like eucalyptus, then?” Okay, again with the stupid questions. I could have ended this early, but nooooooo….; I have to go and make it weirder. He looks at me like I’m crazy, a wild expression sprawling across his face. “One, I use Eucalyptus lotion. Two, you know what I smell like? That's both creepy and mildly concerning. I don’t know if I wantyou in my home anymore.” I glance at him. “You wanted me in your home?” The response was nonchalant enough, but my heart is beating a million miles an hour. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, STUPID!!! I almost chose to rot in a prison cell instead of helping them because I thought I’d end up dead. Now, If I don’t end up dead by the end of this, I’ll kill myself on my own time. Serious.
He doesn’t reply as we pull into his driveway, and…
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HOLY. SHIT.
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Who on earth even needs this big of a house? He’s one man, and by the looks of it, the ‘house’ (if you’d even call it that) has at least 10 bedrooms. Cy roots around in the centre console between us before pulling out a small remote, letting out a small “aha!”, & pressing a button. With that, the garage opens like a drawbridge to a castle, receding upwards into its frame. Driving into the garage, all I can do is ogle. The garage door closes behind us. My car might be better than his, but my trashy dorm is no match for this castle of a house– hell, it’s no match for this garage.
The floor is made out of polished greystone, the walls are so shiny they’re blinding me, and I could probably fit 35 grizzly bears in here. Stepping out of the car, I glance back at it, comparing it to my surroundings; It looks so out of place. Wordlessly, I follow him into the house.
Then I snap back to reality. I’m in a mansion. With a man. And weirdly, I’m not freaking out? Just give it five minutes, I tell myself, You’ll be running for the hills. The first room I step out of the garage into is a marble-floored kitchen. Remember those 35 grizzly bears from earlier? It’d be great if I got mauled by one right about now, because this is humbling. Granite counters sit atop darkwood cabinets with gold accents. There’s an entire bar across the far wall. Sat to its right is an abnormally large arched window, and to its left is a door that I can only assume leads to a bathroom. Besides the liquor, however, I don’t see any other food. Or decor; the counters are completely empty, and it’s almost as if he’s just moved in. While he throws his keys on the counter & takes off his jacket, I peek in the fridge. There’s nothing but a greasy pizza box and a single ketchup bottle in the door. Yuck. This really is a man's house. Past the kitchen island to my left is a 35x35ft room with ceilings higher than my self-esteem. In the center sits an L-shaped couch with a matching ottoman, along with an oval-shaped, glass coffee table. There’s a raw brick accent wall directly in front of it, in which a TV sits, mounted to the wall. Below, along the wall is a large collection of records that sit on floating shelves, a record player on a table below them, and one, sad dying plant. The wall to the right is almost entirely windowed, revealing an expanse of twinkling city lights in the distance.
The whole place is open concept, so to the left of it all is the backside of two curved staircases, both of which lead to what looks like an upstairs hallway. The front door is in front of them, and there’s two rooms on the immediate left and right walls besides them, but I’m unsure exactly what they are. The place smells like fresh linen and cleaning supplies, and to say I’m relieved is an understatement.
This might be better than a B&B, but I refuse to let myself get comfortable; this is strictly business. Cy obstructs my view from the kitchen when he lazily hangs his jacket on the back of the couch & turns to me, spreading his arms out wide to address the room. “You like the place?” He asks, dimples forming on his cheeks. I scrunch my brows like I'm thinking about it. “Well, it’s very…” I draw my words out and eventually stop talking, because I don't actually have the words to describe it. He cuts me off when I don’t finish my sentence. “awesome?” I shake my head gravely. “It’s very… ‘off with their heads’.” He frowns. I continue anyway. “No, I’m serious; this is the kind of thing that sparks revolutions.” Walking around the room & dragging my hands against the wall, I stop and rub my fingers together like I’m inspecting the drywall. Err, wall-wall. Apparently, he’s too good for regular-old drywall, too.`
He crosses his arms in mock outrage, hiding a smile. “Well I think it’s nice.” I roll my eyes, “It’s not mine,” he continues. I scrunch my brows. ‘Not mine?’ What the hell is that supposed to mean? “It was a gift. From the H.A.” he clarifies. Huh; Guess it pays to have rich friends. Or, Co-workers? Whatever they are to him, I guess. Last year for Christmas, I tried to get Jackie to buy me a pair of fuzzy socks, and she said she couldn’t afford them (which I still don’t believe, because they were only 12 dollars), so hopefully that helps to illustrate just the kind of people I choose to surround myself with. Definitely not the ‘I just bought you a house!’ kind of people. …Though I'm not really sure those people exist outside of hallmark movies (and the Hero’s Association, apparently).
I fight a yawn and lose, tiredness flooding my body. My eyes feel significantly heavier. “Right,” he says, addressing me, "I'd usually suggest you have something to eat before you sleep, but as you saw earlier, I have nothing.” hah. Wait a second. “How’d you know I peeked? You were looking the other way.” He stares at me like I've sincerely underestimated him, but doesn’t respond. “Fine,” I raise my hands defensively, “You win. Now where exactly am I… sleeping?” There’s a pause before the word ‘sleep’ because the idea of sleeping in someone else's house (his, of all people’s) is so… foreign to me. He walks toward the stairs to our left, and I follow him. “Well, you have options,” He responds, “I have a few guest rooms.” I scoff. “Subtle brag.”
He shrugs, smiling just out of view. Before we head up the stairs, something to my right catches my eye. Is that… There’s an empty foyer with polished wood floors where a single, black sports car sits in the center of the room. I stop in my tracks to address it, and Cy dramatically backtracks to stand beside me, like it’s the most work anyone’s put him through. Tough, buddy. “What?” he asks impatiently. I whip my head back to stare at him with scrutinizing eyes. This isn’t cool anymore; it’s obnoxious. “Are you looking at the same thing I am, or do you need me to book you an appointment with an optometrist? I know a really good one just three blocks from my dorm; it looks really sketchy, but it’s actually really affordable. They d–” Cy cuts me off brusquely. “My eyes are fine, thank you.” he sighs. “So?” I ask, “what is that?” He raises an eyebrow & straightens his back, apparently accepting that this is going to take a while. “A car,” he states simply. Well, fuck you too. I decide to simplify my question for the life-sized toddler next to me. “No, I mean what is it doing inside your house?” He eyes me. “Those are two very different questions. Anyway, you’ll notice a very enticing staircase this way,” he gestures to the stairs, “if you’ll be so kind as to move on.” I’d love to continue this conversation, but because I'm such a good samaritan, I decide to move on.
The top of both stairs connect to a loft-style balcony, where three hallways stretch to my left, right, and front. He stops moving abruptly, and I ram into his back, rubbing my head. “What?” I ask, slightly annoyed.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, “I’m going to my room now, unless you plan on following me there,” Uh, what? “What about me?” I ask.
“Yeah, what about you?” My face falls, and I stare at him begrudgingly. “Alright, I see I've passed the joke window," he says, “there’s like three bedrooms down to the left, one in the hall ahead, and two rooms to the right, but one of them’s mine. Technically, the one room in front is the master bedroom, if you want that?” He spits out the words like he’s Rap God. It takes me a second to process his words, but I don’t even question why the hell he’s not sleeping in the master bedroom, because in three minutes, I’ll be sleeping in luxury.
Without missing a beat, I say “Kay,” followed by a hesitant “Bye?”. Then I turn on my heel, heading down the middle hallway as he says “don’t let the bed bugs bite!” I stop in my tracks for two reasons: one, because I may actually die of all the cringe amounted from that statement, and two, the prospect of bed bugs is just…. I swear to god, if there's bed bugs in this house, I’m putting fire ants in his underwear drawer. “I won't;” I say, promptly continuing my walk forward, “I’ll just rally them against you.” I can feel his bemused expression boring into my back as he responds. “Night, bug whisperer.” I'm not a fan of that nickname, but I’m more concerned about whether or not this room has a jacuzzi. If there’s one thing I'm getting out of this, it’s that goddamned jacuzzi; preferably one that bubbles. I’ve got my priorities pretty straight, if you ask me.
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and then Add to home screen.